


Humilitas; Superbia

by borrowedphrases



Series: If God Smokes Cheap Cigars [1]
Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, M/M, Wingfic, WriteBet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1958280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takatora spends a few quiet moments with Kouta at daybreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humilitas; Superbia

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [WriteBet](http://writebet.tumblr.com/) Day Two. "Writer's Choice"
> 
> I’m using the [Fandom ‘Kink, Trope and Cliche’ Random Prompt Generator](http://panthermoon.com/generators/kink.php) for days with no prompts.
> 
> For Day Two I got: _Religion (sin; faith and lack of faith; priests, monks, nuns, etc; shamans; biblical characters; **angels and demons** ; gods and goddesses; saints; monastic or convent culture)_
> 
> _(Optional: character study)_

  
  
_look at what I did to me, and look at what you've done to you_  
 _we'll get better as the days swallow themselves_  
 _'cause this is all we know how to do..._  
"Puritan Dirt Song", Envy on the Coast

The soft glow of approaching daybreak begins to creep in through the cracks in the window blinds, the fragments slowly making their way across the floor in tiny strips of gold. They gild their way to the bed, get tangled up in the blankets as surly as the sets of legs resting in them are, and spread their radiance over the planes of the lean body stretched out beside Takatora.

Kouta's back rises and falls, slowly, rhythmically, as he breathes, still asleep. In the low golden light Takatora can see the web-work of patterns forming the shape of wings on his skin, like a white inked tattoo, subtle and soft. It looks different in this light than it did with the silver of the moon, sharper almost, easier to see.

Takatora reaches a hand out to trace those lines with a light touch. He can feel the heat from them, the warmth of Heaven making them feel a degree or so hotter than the surrounding flesh. In their mortal guises they're as good as human, needing to breathe, needing to sleep, feeling hunger, feeling earthly pains, and feeling earthly pleasures. While Takatora's kind were meant to indulge, meant to savor indulgences while they were mortal-side, Kouta's kind were expected to deny themselves such things. To deny themselves both pleasure and pain, both were the product of the dark Divine.

It still amazes Takatora sometimes that such a creature would dare spend even a moment's peaceful time with him. That a shining paragon of Humility would even give a Pride demon such as he a second thought beyond conflict. Takatora remembers when he sang in that same Chorus, when he knelt modestly before the light half of the Divine in selfless respect, when he had the courage to put all others before himself. Kouta is everything that he once was, and more than he was, somehow, for he still finds the strength of will to sing, to dance, to kneel, and to serve, even after being with a fallen creature like Takatora. He wonders if Kouta thinks similar things about him, if he lies awake after their pleasures have been spent and wonders at how a creature such a Takatora could find anything worthwhile in him.

Takatora traces the faint white lines across Kouta's skin, the shapes of feathers trailing from between Kouta's shoulder blades, fanning over his shoulders and stretching out over the backs of his upper arms. He glides his touch over one wing, and then the other, remembering Kouta's true wings, soft as down yet strong as iron. Immaculate and full, unlike Takatora's own ragged and worn wings, wings that used to reflect the Divine radiance, not yearn to soak it up, to steal it away. The dark side of the Source had its own benefits, its own glory, but sometimes, when he's with Kouta-

Takatora's fingers stop their tracing near the center of Kouta's back, his light touch catching on a bit of texture he's not used to feeling there. He pauses, and leans in closer, inspecting the bit of raised skin. There, just at the beginning of Kouta's left wing mark, is a pattern of light scarring, barely perceptible, where gentle line-work had always been, and should still be. It echoes the marks on Takatora's own back, the rough scarred patterns of his true dark wings.

Kouta stirs suddenly, mumbling incoherencies in his waking, and Takatora turns his inspecting touch into a lightly resting palm, mindful of possible flailing limbs that may be incoming; Kouta was known to sometimes be a wiggly creature in the morning, the natural spirit of Joy within him manifesting itself as youthful exuberance.

"What time it is?" Kouta turns his head to face Takatora, resting his cheek on one of his forearms and smiling sleepily. His eyelids droop lazily, taking their time to rise again after he blinks. His cheeks are slightly full, just barely pink, and everything about him looks soft and warm.

"A little past dawn." Takatora gives him an apologetic look that he knows doesn't quite reach his eyes. He slides his hand up Kouta's neck and into his hair, giving the back of his head a affectionate scratch. "I didn't have the heart to wake you."

"Shoot." Kouta groans, the closest he ever gets to cursing, and buries his face in the crook of his elbow as he shakes his head and kicks his feet. "I was supposed to lead the Chorus through the Dawning."

"I'm sure some other Humble One handled it." Takatora begins, ready and willing to reassure Kouta that this one self-indulgence won't get him expunged from Elysium - he knew this from experience - but Kouta is already moving, rising from the bed and letting the covers fall from around his hips. Takatora takes a moment to eye Kouta's backside as he stands, watching his muscles move as he stretches and gathers himself. He seems to draw the light of the dawn inward toward himself as he works his body into readiness. After one especially reaching stretch, his wings unfurl from his back, taking on their real, almost blindingly white form, no longer confined to trace work on mortal flesh.

Takatora sighs, sad that their quiet mornings together are always so brief, and slides out of the bed as well. As he stands he draws what few shadows still linger in the room toward himself, his skin going paler, the subtle blue of death tracing at the corners of his eyes and tinting his lips. He cracks his neck and shakes out his wings, a few feathers molting into the air that fade to dust as soon as they touch anything material. Before either of them can summon their armor, Takatora reaches out, gliding his fingers along one of Kouta's wings to the base and scratching at the nub of bone there, just the way he knows drives Kouta pleasurably crazy.

Takatora doesn't have time to dwell on the pleasant quiver that he feels run through Kouta, on the way Kouta's wings shiver and shake, because he feels a texture difference again, something not smooth and strong, but rough and worn and all too familiar. He wraps one arm around Kouta's chest, making a show of pressing his palm to Kouta's heart and pulling him in close. He noses at the back of Kouta's neck, then wraps his wings around Kouta's waist, feathers brushing against all too sensitive places to distract Kouta from the explorations of his hand.

"I really have to go." Kouta protests softly, voice breathless and wavering as Takatora's feathers start to coax others parts of him awake again, but he leans back into Takatora, obviously reluctant to leave. Reluctant to return to his post. Reluctant to deny himself this indulgence.

Takatora's searching fingers push a few smaller feathers aside, and there, amongst all the white, he fingers find a lone black feather, right where Kouta's wings meet his back.


End file.
